


Walt Bannerman Is Gay

by Tangerine



Category: Dead Zone
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-06
Updated: 2006-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-18 20:22:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tangerine/pseuds/Tangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The craziest stuff comes out of Johnny Smith's mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walt Bannerman Is Gay

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the [Dead Zone Photo Challenge](http://deadzonefic.livejournal.com/7662.html).

The craziest shit came out of Johnny Smith’s mouth. It was like Christmas every day, because Bruce was a big fan of crazy shit. And most of this shit was criminally insane. Shakespeare-quoting axe murderers, flesh-eating serial killers, never-before-seen genetic disorders, prophecies of fiery Armageddon - being Johnny’s best friend was awesome.

But every so often, Johnny outdid himself, and Bruce had nothing to say.

Almost.

“What? _Our_ Walt Bannerman? That one?”

“Walt Bannerman is gay,” Johnny repeated, the familiar faraway look swimming in his eyes, which had crossed just a little. Bruce had never had the heart, or the opportunity, to tell Johnny just how _interesting_ he looked when he had visions, and how he drooled a little, sometimes. Never let it be said that Bruce wasn’t an awesome best friend back.

“Walt _Bannerman_? Our ‘howdy folks, have a safe day’ straight-as-an-arrow sheriff?”

Johnny blinked sharply, twitched once then glared at Bruce. “I thought I told you not to talk to me through my visions anymore,” he said, putting down the Styrofoam coffee cup that had triggered the vision. Yet another reason to avoid the vile coffee at the station.

“It’s like talking to a sleepwalker, man. Impossible to resist.”

Johnny looked grim, like he’d just predicted Walt’s doom. And in a small town like Cleaves Mills, maybe he had, but Bruce knew for a fact there were queer guys walking around, though most weren’t out. But there _were_ more queer guys than black guys.

“Are you sure you didn’t get your wires crossed, man?”

“I know what I saw,” Johnny said gloomily.

“Well, it’s not like the guy’s going to _die_ ,” and the fact that Johnny didn’t disagree freaked Bruce out.

“Walt’s had a rough time recently …”

Bruce nodded. He didn’t really know Walt. They were friendly, of course, because Walt was obligated to be, and Bruce was just like that naturally, but he’d never gone out to see a movie with the guy, or watched a game with him, or hung out with him. But Bruce knew Johnny, who had kept him updated on the entire tragic Bannerman situation.

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“Me?” Johnny said, almost a squeak, and gawked at Bruce like he was a moron. “It’s not like the guy’s said more than three words to me since … since …”

“He and Sarah broke up,” Bruce supplied helpfully, “leaving the door wide open for you.”

Johnny didn’t say anything. He hadn’t, Bruce knew, done what every instinct he had was probably telling him to do, which was head on over to Sarah’s place (which she got in the settlement) and take his rightful place in her life, but he would. Bruce understood that.

Walt probably understood that, too.

“Is this where I ask what _I’m_ going to do about it?”

“He’s still talking to you,” Johnny said quietly, looking miserable and guilty enough that Bruce already knew he was going to agree to this. He didn’t know Walt, but he liked the guy, and had voted for him in the last few elections. Walt didn’t deserve whatever dire situation Johnny had foretold for him, and Bruce knew it probably had little to do with how gay he was or wasn’t. Whatever it was, though, Johnny obviously wasn’t going to explain.

“Fine,” Bruce said. “I’ll make Walt my new best friend, since my old one sucks.”

Johnny bowed his head. “Thank you.”

Bruce sighed.

~~~

Winter had almost landed, the air getting colder every day, he noticed as he walked down Main Street, rubbing his hands together. It had been two days since Johnny had decided the only way to save Walt was for Bruce to do _something_. And unless Walt needed a deep tissue massage, Bruce was going to do the only other thing he could: be a friend.

That he and Walt probably had nothing in common was a moot point.

Of course, it wasn’t like Bruce didn’t have plenty of experience befriending the reluctant. It had taken three weeks of constant wheedling to get Johnny to do something with him outside of their physical therapy sessions. Johnny would have turned into a total hermit without him, which probably would have turned _Johnny_ into a flesh-eating serial killer.

And if what Johnny had said was true, if Walt was _gay_ , Bruce suspected this was probably a new self-revelation, one coming to the surface after years of denial and employment in the law enforcement field. It was probably going to be very messy.

_If_ what Johnny had said was true.

Unfortunately, Johnny Smith was very rarely wrong.

~~~

Bruce found Walt quite by accident. It was after midnight, and Bruce hadn’t been able to sleep, tossing and turning before getting up, pulling on his oldest pair of sweatpants and his favourite tee-shirt, which had holes in the armpits and patches where you could see through the thin cotton. He gathered the rest of his laundry as he yanked on his coat.

The Laundromat was one of those 24-hour joints, but it was in Cleaves Mills, which meant that Bruce had never seen another living soul inside it after 9pm. This was his lucky night, though. Walt was there, seated on one of the rickety old wooden chairs, reading a ratty Stephen King novel. He looked like the life had been sucked out of him.

“Hey, man,” Bruce said, dropping his bag of clothes on the floor.

“Bruce,” Walt said, looking up briefly before thumbing over to the next page.

Bruce started to sort his laundry, watching Walt out of the corner of his eye. There was a tightness in his features that Bruce hadn’t seen before, an expression that hadn’t ever reared its head even when he and Johnny were stressing out over a particularly gruesome case. Bruce, usually relegated to the role of sickeningly optimistic Coffee Boy, would have noticed. His job demanded he see people at their worst, so he knew what it looked like.

“How’s it going?”

“Fine,” Walt replied shortly, turning another page.

Bruce grinned into his laundry. So much like Johnny had been, those first few weeks, when Johnny had been trying to get a handle on the psychic thing and the fact his entire life had passed him by. They’d been friendly immediately, but there had been distance.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Walt said as Bruce started to shove the first batch of laundry - his whites and colours, minus anything that would bleed - into the machine. Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Brand new red sweater in with your lights? That’s a little dangerous, man.”

“Aw, shit,” Bruce said. “Birthday gift from my mother. I totally forgot about that.”

Bruce fished the offending sweater out of the pile, shoving it in with his darks. He supposed he could have just sorted three piles - darks, lights and colours - but then that added an extra two dollars to his laundry, and physical therapists didn’t make millions.

“Colour blind?”

Bruce nodded. “Good guess. Red is my mortal enemy - I thought that stupid thing was yellow. This light isn’t helping, either. Whenever I come here, I always feel like I’m going to be grabbed by some socially stunted psycho who wants to make me into a hat.”

Walt smiled a little, like it hurt to, into his book. “I’ll arrest them, if anybody tries that.”

“I appreciate it. Thanks.”

Bruce stuffed his laundry into two of the washers, fought with the change slot until it took all of his money, fought with the knob until the washer actually started, fought with the two boxes of no-name laundry detergent he had bought at the door then sat down.

Bruce cleared his throat. “So …”

Walt looked up, sliding a hand behind his neck, rubbing at the edge of his ratty tee-shirt. _Holy gay_ , Bruce thought, except probably not quite how Johnny meant it. “Yeah?”

“Well, Johnny hasn’t foreseen any massacres recently, so I haven’t seen you in weeks.” The delivery on this next bit was crucial, because Cleaves Mills was a small town, and in small towns, Bruce had learned, everybody knew your dirty little secrets. “Things okay?”

“Never been better,” Walt replied, shrugging. If Bruce hadn’t known any different, he would have said that was almost convincing, but Walt looked like shit. Adorable shit, when he did that thing with his neck, but shit nonetheless. _Never been better_ Bruce’s ass.

“Caught any bad guys recently?”

“Some,” Walt said, looking back down at his book. “Work’s been kind of slow.”

“Hence Johnny’s lack of dire visions. I get it.”

Walt nodded without looking up. Bruce could sense the almost impenetrable force field around him, the body language that told everybody within the area to back off or risk serious consequences. It didn’t dissuade him, though. Bruce liked a good challenge, and if Bruce could befriend Johnny, who couldn’t stand people, then he’d befriend Walt, too.

All it meant was that Bruce had his work cut out for him. Bruce shook his head, bemused.

No wonder Sarah had fallen for these two stubborn guys - they were exactly the same.

~~~

Bruce left a message for Johnny to get back to him. Normally, Bruce was more than happy just to go along with Johnny’s visions, but he needed to know what he was dealing with. Walt was obviously unhappy, but the guy had just gotten divorced after ten years of marriage, so Bruce didn’t expect him to be dancing an Irish jig down Main Street.

It took Johnny an entire day to return his call.

“It could have been important, you know,” Bruce said, whisking some eggs, the phone pinched between his chin and shoulder. “I could have been dying bloodily in a gutter.”

“Hey, newsflash: I’m psychic. If it had been urgent, I would have called back sooner.”

Bruce dumped half the bowl of eggs into the pan then switched his attention to his bacon, which was sizzling in a copious pool of delicious grease. “Yeah, yeah. For all I know, you’ve just been lucky and full of shit from the beginning. I’m pretty gullible, dude.”

“You’re pretty something,” Johnny agreed. “And the answer is no.”

Bruce stuffed a slice of bacon into his mouth, his eyes watering at the pain but unable to stop chewing just because it was hotter than hell, then switched back to the other pan. “What do you mean _no_?” He paused mid-scramble, eggs bubbling around his spatula.

“I can’t tell you anything about my vision, because it won’t help you.”

Bruce began viciously scrapping his scrambled eggs onto his plate. “Whoa, whoa, pull back, cowboy. Here I am thinking that if I fuck up, I’m going to find Walt hanging from the ceiling.” Bruce put the pan down on the counter. “You telling me that won’t happen?”

“I’m telling you I didn’t see that happening,” Johnny said. “What I saw …” He sighed deeply. “Let the guy have a little dignity, okay? I’ve taken enough of that from him.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose with greasy fingers. “He looks bad, man.”

“He’ll look worse if he has to do this alone. But I can’t help you, Bruce. I’m sorry.”

“You suck, seriously,” Bruce said, and hung up.

~~~

The next time Bruce stumbled across Walt, about a week later, it was another pure accident. He’d worked seven days straight, thanks to certain jackasses he worked with not showing up, and even though he was exhausted, he couldn’t sleep. He’d tried. Oh lord, he had tried, but tossing and turning had only led to frustration and grim thoughts better left ignored.

Johnny’s Chicken Little thing was pretty scary in the dark.

Right next to the unsurprisingly empty 24-hour Laundromat was a 24-hour convenience store, which Bruce haunted whenever his insomnia got too bad. They had a nice variety of munchies to pick from, not too stale and not too weird, and the guy who worked the midnight shift was a wannabe-writer type, with shaggy hair and black-rimmed glasses.

The thing about this store that Bruce really loved, though, was the wannabe-writer guy was also in charge of the pathetically tiny DVD rental section, which was filled with the craziest shit. Bruce really could not get enough of crazy shit. It was his favourite.

“Whoa, Walt,” Bruce said when he turned into the last aisle, nearly dropping his bottle of Diet Sprite. Walt looked over at him, still in his work uniform. That was a job Bruce did not envy, even when his own droves him nuts. “You aren’t renting my movies, are you?”

“I doubt it,” Walt replied then narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you work in the morning?”

“Yeah, but. Insomnia. What can you do?” Bruce asked. Walt bobbed his head blankly, obviously deciding that was enough small talk to suffer through, but Bruce wasn’t having it, mostly because Walt was renting his movies. Bruce laughed. “Man, share a little of the Duke, will ya?”

Walt peered at him suspiciously. “You like John Wayne?”

“Hell, yeah, I like John Wayne. I used to be a film major, you know.”

“Really? What happened?”

“What every film major realises eventually: I would never get a job.” Bruce grinned, pleased when Walt offered his own small smile. “I mean, it was fun, and if money hadn’t been an issue, I would have stuck with it, but physio pays the bills, you know?”

“Yeah, I get it.” Walt looked down at the DVD in his hand. “You like this one?”

“I’m not shitting you when I said you’re renting my movies.”

“You can have it,” Walt said quickly, holding it out, but Bruce lifted his hands.

“No, no, there are unspoken rules at the DVD rack. You touch it; it’s yours. That’s one.”

Walt smiled a little. “And the others?”

“You don’t talk about the DVD rack. Which we’re doing a lousy job with. I’m sure the Emo guy at the counter is going to have us both shot now, or charge us late fees.” Bruce looked over the shaggy guy, who had two pencils tucked into his upper lip, like fangs. Bruce leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “plus, look at him. Total weirdo.”

“I used to have hair like that,” Walt said.

“I’m so, so sorry to hear that.”

“Punk,” Walt said, and laughed for real this time, straight from the belly. Bruce grinned at him, feeling almost giddy, because there was a breakthrough there. Bruce had felt it with Johnny, a physical sense of _knowing_ that the hardest battle had been fought and won, and now he had felt it with Walt.

Something had changed, but Bruce didn’t quite know what yet.

~~~

Johnny made a face. “Dude, you look like shit.”

Bruce slapped his own cheeks as they waited in line for a healthy meal of food court grease. It was the first time Bruce had seen Johnny in two weeks. “I haven’t been sleeping well, and work is killing me, man. Too many people, too many gimpy limbs.”

“Damn those coma patients,” Johnny agreed gamely. “And don’t get the pizza.”

Bruce huffed. “But the pizza looks delicious.”

“Okay, hey, if you want the runs, ignore the psychic, but I’m telling you. That pizza is no good.” Johnny looked over at the pimply guy working the cash. “Hey, kid, your tomato sauce is rotten. Unless you want to see Puke-a-polooza, throw everything out.”

The kid stared at them. “Uh, I have to talk to my manager.”

“Sure.” Johnny leaned back on the counter, resting his hands on his cane. He’d been limping pretty badly recently, though he had refused to let Bruce massage his legs. Something about abusing their friendship, but screw that. Johnny was abusing Bruce by making Bruce watch him amble around painfully. “So how are things going with you?”

Johnny didn’t need to say the W-word. Bruce got it. “I don’t know. Fine. I mean, the guy looks miserable and tired, but that screams normal coping reaction to me. I keep running into him, though. It’s a little weird,” Bruce admitted. “You doing something?”

“Yeah, I forgot to mention I’m now omnipotent. I’ve renamed this planet Smithsonian.”

“Jeez, just asking.” Bruce rolled his eyes. “And I think that name’s already taken.”

“Not anymore, it isn’t.” Johnny leaned his head back as the pimply kid came up to them, looking visibly distressed. Johnny smiled serenely. “So what did your manager say?”

“My manager is puking in the back,” the kid said. “We’re out of pizza, I guess.”

“That’s all right. My friend here was going to change his mind, anyway.”

“I do kind of feel like Chinese,” Bruce admitted.

~~~

Ten minutes later, Johnny had a vision, triggered by the napkins Bruce had grabbed from a nearby hamburger place. One second, Johnny was dripping mustard down his chin, and the next he was shouting, “don’t turn it on, fire, fire, the whole place will go up, _fire_!”

Fifteen minutes after that, they were standing out in the cold, Johnny alternating between a bottle of water and explaining to the police that no, he wasn’t an arsonist, and would they please talk to Sheriff Bannerman, who would vouch for him. Bruce had a headache.

“You all right?” He asked Johnny, after the cops had moved away, arguing over whether or not Johnny was the real deal. What would Johnny have to do to make people believe? He had believed Johnny from the beginning, but then, it was in Bruce’s genes to believe.

“Who cares about me! Are all those kids okay?”

The first thing Bruce always did in cases like these was find out what was happening. Mostly, he was nosy. “Yeah. The guy who was working the grill heard you yelling like a crazy dude, and stepped away just as the thing blew. He’s a little singed, that’s all.”

“Good,” Johnny said, visibly relieved, then looked up as Walt made his way across the pavement, giving instructions and answering questions as he walked toward them.

“John, sorry about that. They’re just doing their jobs. You’re good to go.”

“Hello to you, too,” Johnny muttered, rubbing his temples.

Bruce smiled weakly. “Hey, Walt.”

“Bruce.”

And then it was awkward, because Johnny and Walt were studiously pretending it wasn’t. Not that there hadn’t been tension between them before, but it had never been this weird. Bruce didn’t even know if Johnny and Sarah were together yet. It didn’t really matter.

“I need more water,” Johnny said abruptly, standing and slowly limping off, leaving Bruce alone with Walt. The tense smile on Walt’s face fell off, just for a second, before he assumed a more neutral expression, but his shoulders remained stiffly squared.

“That could’ve been a big mess,” Walt said casually, and Bruce wasn’t sure which situation to apply the statement to, so he just nodded, his headache even worse than before, pulling at the corners of his eyes. “Hey, you need an aspirin or something?”

“Oh, man, yes,” Bruce said, following Walt over to his squad car. Walt bowed down into his car, opening the glove compartment and fishing out a bottle of pills. Sheriff pants, Bruce decided, were pretty gay, a little too tight in the thighs and ass. He looked away.

“Water?”

“Not necessary. I’m the master of swallowing,” Bruce said before quickly adding, “ _pills_. I’m the master of swallowing _pills_.”

Walt looked at him like he was crazy. “Uh, okay.”

Bruce exhaled sharply.

Walt leaned up against the hood of his car, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Bruce looked away from that, too, and swallowed the two aspirins dry before climbing onto the hood. Across the parking lot, Bruce could see Johnny talking to Roscoe and Shields.

“It’s hard to be mad at him,” Walt murmured.

“Roscoe _is_ pretty cool,” Bruce replied, grinning when Walt rolled his eyes. “And yeah, especially when he’s all saving people and things. Wouldn’t want to be him, though.”

“No,” Walt agreed, “not for all the money in the world.”

Which was Bruce’s sentiment exactly.

~~~

Bruce had been counting the days until he got two of them off in a row. His mission then consisted of drink, drink, puke and drink. A noble endeavour in his humble opinion, but it wasn’t something he could drag Johnny out for, and he wasn’t quite there with Walt yet.

He put on a pair of jeans and a grey tee-shirt that had the world _hello_ written faintly across the chest. Then he had to make a couple decisions: liquor or beer, local or Bangor, guys or girls. It was easier to arrive at _beer_ , _Bangor_ and _guys_ than it had been in the past.

Beer didn’t rot his gut like rum or vodka did. He had a friend in Bangor, more like a fuck buddy really, who would let him crash on his floor if he got wasted. And guys, well, it had been a while and fucking Johnny Smith had set him on this inevitable course weeks ago.

As a second thought, he grabbed his leather jacket on the way out of the door, then was grateful he had. Winter was right around the corner now, frost threatening the grass, and Bruce could see his breath as it puffed out between his lips. Stupid winter. Winter meant Christmas, but thankfully he’d gotten a lot of his shopping done with Johnny’s help.

Sometimes, having a psychic best friend really rocked.

Bangor was quieter than normal, and the area of town he was heading to was practically deserted. He parked in the first spot he found then got out of his car, yanking his collar up around his ears then tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He looked around.

And there was Walt.

Bruce was surprised, because even though Johnny had said, Bruce hadn’t really believed, not deep down in his guts, until he saw Walt standing against the wall, staring down at his feet. He’d brushed his hair differently, forward instead of back. He looked nervous.

Bruce debated just leaving him alone. He remember how it had been, sneaking around, pretending that his presence was only ever accidental. ‘Oh, is this a gay club? I was just looking to have a beer, haha, silly me.’ But he also remembered what that attracted.

Bruce walked up to Walt and leaned in to speak to him. “Hey, let me buy you a beer?”

Startled, Walt looked up and peered wide-eyed at him. “Bruce?”

“Nah, I’m his evil twin, Wayne.” Bruce kicked Walt’s shoe. “Of course it’s me, man.”

Walt rubbed the back of his neck with a pink-knuckled hand, and he _really_ had to stop doing that. It attracted the attention of a tall, thin guy walking by, and Bruce gave him the evil eye, just in case the guy felt like stopping. “A beer sounds good,” Walt said.

Bruce took him to a little pub a block away that had a pool table and an older clientele. Plus, Bruce had briefly dated the owner for three weeks, about four years ago. At three weeks, it remained one of Bruce’s longest relationships, which was admittedly pathetic.

~~~

A few beers later, and Walt started talking without any prompts from Bruce. It was Bruce’s mission to make sure Walt got plastered, which Walt had resisted at first. “I gotta drive home,” he said, waving Bruce’s plans away, “and I have to work tomorrow.”

“In the morning?”

“Evening shift,” Walt admitted, reluctantly.

“Then drink like a dog, man, and I’ll drive you home and back for your car tomorrow. I’m thinking a Penobscot County sheriff doesn’t get piss drunk often enough.” Bruce waved down the bartender, a cute blond with a nose ring, and ordered another beer for Walt and a coke with lime for himself. “Trust me, all right? Relax a little. You’re overdue.”

Walt made a face, like he meant to argue, then nodded. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Excellent. Up for a game of pool? Ten bucks says I win.”

And that was where they were now, working the pool table, Bruce getting his ass thoroughly kicked. It gave Bruce a chance to watch Walt, to take in his reactions and process them. Probably thought he was being so sneaky, but Bruce saw the way Walt kept looking around the room, occasionally stopping on the two guys necking in the corner, and the adorable bartender, who disarmed even the grumpiest man.

Bruce didn’t say anything to Walt about where they were, or why they were there. Walt wasn’t a moron and could put two-and-two together, and Bruce was more concerned with keeping things normal, because they were normal, despite the opinions of the world at large. Bruce knew exactly what it felt like to be in the _Other_ category, and it sucked.

“Shit,” Bruce said, sipping his coke, “you’re kicking my ass, man.”

Walt paused, bent over the table, pool cue ready for the attack. He grinned. “I thought I’d have a little more competition, but you …” Walt trailed off tactfully, hitting the green ball into the corner just like he had promised. He stood up then took a long swig of beer.

“I’ve played exactly five games of pool in my life. I’m currently zero-and-five.”

Walt rounded the table. “Yeah, sorry.” He knocked the final one, the eight ball, in.

“Motherfucker,” Bruce said, laughing as he fished a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet.

They made their way back to the table, Walt leaning just a little as he walked. Bruce ordered another round then collapsed into the chair, smiling widely as he leaned back. “I think I just got taken, man. You were almost too good. Or was that just dumb luck?”

“I played with my dad a lot, growing up. We had a table in the basement.”

Bruce tilted his head. “You get along with your dad?”

Walt pursed his lips, drained his glass of beer then accepted the new one when the cute bartender placed it on the table. “Yeah, I guess. As well as I could, seeing as we were both pig-headed stubborn. Kind of had to, after my mom died.” Walt stared into his pint.

“Yeah,” Bruce said. “I can’t say I got along with my dad. I did when I was a kid, but I hit my teens, and everything just went bad really fast.” Bruce sat up, resting his elbows in the table as he swallowed another mouthful of sticky soda. “I was a preacher’s son.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“ _Hell_ yeah.” Bruce scratched his chin, debating. He had never told Johnny any of this, made him find out for himself at his father’s funeral, but it felt easier to talk about it now. “I used to preach, too, as a kid. All fire and brimstone and angels down from heaven.”

Walt sat back, cup of beer in his hand.

Bruce looked up at the ceiling and started speaking, hands spread far apart. “And lo, I have a seen an angel. I have seen him, and he has said to me, I tell you, he has said to me, let their be peace among God’s good people, and let His good people rejoice. Lord, that is what this angel said to me, that is what He commanded, and Lord, it is good.”

Walt frowned into his beer. “And just how fucked up were you, after that?”

Bruce laughed loudly. “Dude, the second I finished high school, I was out of there. My dad had wanted me to stay, wanted me to keep preaching, but I got out of Indiana as fast as I could. I got into Berkeley, and hadn’t told him. I went there with three missions.”

“Dare I ask,” Walt murmured.

Bruce started counting them off on his fingers. “One, I was going to get dreadlocks and complete my transformation into the hooligan my father had always prayed against. Two, I was going to enroll in the most frivolous program I could find, which began my career as a film student. And three, I was going to fuck the first guy who was willing.”

Bruce had to give Walt credit; he barely reacted to that. But the question was plain on his face, and Walt was drunk enough that he was willing to ask it. “And did you?”

“Yeah. Marcus Albright, lived on the same floor as me. I noticed him first day, but I couldn’t tell if he was into that or not. I wasn’t a virgin. I’d fucked a girl or two, but I had never even dared to look at a guy in the same town my father lived in.” Bruce smiled fondly around the edge of his glass. “But at the first floor party, we ended up fucking.”

Walt nodded, tense again, but not in the same way he had been before, more like anxious. Taking another swig of beer then setting the glass back on the table, Walt dragged a hand across the back of his neck. Nervous, Bruce thought, giving Walt all the time he needed.

“Bobby O’Grady,” Walt said quietly. “We played hockey together in high school, from freshman to senior year, but we weren’t exactly friends. Last party of the summer, right before everybody went off to college and just a few weeks before I shipped out to Desert Storm,” Walt swallowed, “we … you know. I was pretty drunk when it happened.”

Bruce nodded.

He hoped Walt didn’t hate him in the morning, when he was hung over and crabby, but it wasn’t healthy, keeping shit like this inside. On this matter, Bruce was willing to agree with Johnny, even though he was beginning to feel creepy being there.

Walt was a really good guy; Bruce hadn’t meant for it to go this far.

~~~

After their little heart-to-heart, Walt renewed his beer-guzzling enthusiasm, and was falling down drunk within the hour. Bruce stayed close, watching Walt’s back and letting Walt kick his ass a couple more times in pool, keeping their conversation neutral.

When Walt started getting pukey, Bruce decided it was time to leave.

“Come on, buddy,” Bruce said, dragging Walt’s arm across his shoulders, grinning at Walt’s dopey expression. “You are so drunk, man. You feeling good right now?”

“Mm, can’t feel m’ legs,” Walt slurred.

“Good boy.”

They walked slowly down the street, Walt tripping over everything and nothing, eyes half-closed. In the real world, alcohol solved nothing, but it sure was fun pretending it did. Even the cold, which had dipped even lower, wasn’t so bad, with Walt against him.

“Don’t puke in my car,” Bruce said sternly as he buckled Walt in, reaching into the back and feeling blindly for a plastic bag. He found a Slurpee cup, which was have to suffice. “And Walt, hey, buddy, before you go to sleep, tell me where you live. Walt! _Walt_!”

Walt was out cold, breathing heavily, and Bruce sighed. As carefully he could, he patted Walt down, looking for his wallet or his ID or something, but Walt had nothing on him. “Afraid of being caught, huh?” Bruce said quietly. “Can’t say I really blame you, man.”

Walt snored.

Getting Walt up to his apartment was fun and a half, because Walt would wake up every sixth step and frown at him before turning into a zombie again. And when he wasn’t doing that, he was knocking on random doors as Bruce pulled him away, laughing.

“I always knew you were a bad ass,” Bruce whispered, dragging Walt down the hall.

Walt moaned pathetically, which was drunk-ese for, “I am going to puke very soon.” Bruce hurried them down the hall, propped Walt up against the wall as he struggled with his keys, then pushed Walt inside and toward the bathroom. They made it just in time.

“Praise the lord,” Bruce muttered. “You all right, buddy?”

Walt puked.

“I’ll get you some water.”

Walt stopped vomiting eventually, so Bruce gave him two slices of white bread with a stern, “eat them,” then went to find something clean for Walt to wear. After all, Walt deserved the best Bruce had to offer. It wasn’t every day a guy like him had a Penobscot County Sheriff gingerly nibbling at white bread in his bathroom, drunker than hell.

Bruce undressed Walt quickly, gave him a quick wipe down with a damp washcloth, and then dressed him again, surreptitiously avoiding any part of Walt that he had decided was off limits. Walt was semi-awake, dutifully munching away on his bread but fading rapidly.

“Because I like you so much, I’m even giving you my bed,” Bruce said as he dumped Walt into it, crumbs and all, “and drink this water, too. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

“Mm,” Walt said, and let Bruce pour a glass of water down his throat.

Eventually, Bruce got Walt settled. Yawning, he undressed and hunted down something suitable to wear. As a rule, he wasn’t a big fan of pyjamas, but he had company. Grabbing a blanket and an extra pillow, he hunkered down on the couch, and fell asleep.

~~~

Bruce woke up when Walt bumped into the couch while ambling toward the kitchen, eyes opened into narrow slits. It was late morning, deliciously close to noon. Bruce stretched then winced as Walt whacked his head on the doorway, his eyes widening. He blinked.

“This is not my apartment,” Walt said, rubbing two fingers across his forehead.

Bruce grinned over the back of the couch. “Yeah, sorry about that. You had no ID.”

Walt nodded then didn’t say anything else. Back to that, Bruce thought, inwardly sighing, but he got up and headed for the kitchen. Walt regarded him warily, but didn’t move away when Bruce pushed past him to get to the fridge. “I think you need water.”

“I haven’t had that much to drink in, Jesus, ten years,” Walt admitted, sitting down at the table. He immediately began to move the salt-and-pepper shakers around.

Bruce set a tall glass of water, and two aspirins, down on the table in front of Walt. “See, now that we’re friends, you can drink all you want. I’ve got your back.”

“Thank you,” Walt said, studiously staring at the glass.

“No problem. Think you can stomach some scrambled eggs?”

Walt shrugged. “Should probably try, anyway.”

Bruce set to getting everything ready. It was nice, to cook for someone, who wasn’t Johnny. As much as Bruce enjoyed having Johnny around, he did feel a little guilty when an apple he picked out or a steak he cooked happened to be the only one in the bunch with a story attached to it. Mostly it was nothing, but Bruce knew it tired Johnny out.

“For future reference: where do you live, anyway?”

Walt looked up at him. “Pretty close to here. I got a little apartment over on Maple Street, the one Mrs. McGregor owns. Number fourteen, apartment two-B. It’s not a shithole.”

“Stunning endorsement,” Bruce replied, grinning, and Walt smiled at him.

Silence settled between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Bruce put a few pieces of bacon into the microwave then made a few slices of toast. The building heat hadn’t been turned on yet, so the tile floor was icy under his feet. He curled his toes as he cooked.

“John had a vision, didn’t he,” Walt asked suddenly, “about me.”

Of course Walt would come to that conclusion. He was a cop, for fuck’s sake. It was his job to see through bullshit. Bruce nodded slowly. “He didn’t tell me anything, though.”

“So you’re doing all of this because …”

“No,” Bruce said sharply, turning around to face Walt’s sullen expression. “I can’t even explain it, but everywhere I look, you’re there. I haven’t even _tried_ yet. This is all pure dumb luck, the fact we’ve … hit it off,” he finished lamely. “This isn’t some pity thing.”

Walt looked down at his hands, grim. “Am I going to die?”

“Fuck, I hope not,” Bruce said vehemently. Walt glanced up again, surprised, and Bruce sighed.

“You know, Johnny. He’s so fucking _vague_. But I don’t think it was that type of vision. I can tell the difference, sadly enough. I’ve seen him have enough of them.”

“Well,” Walt said, frowning, “just so long as this isn’t some pity thing …”

“It’s not,” Bruce assured him.

“Okay,” Walt said, and left it at that.

~~~

If Bruce hadn’t known any better, he would have thought Johnny was avoiding his phone calls. Either Johnny had gotten into one of must-stop-Armageddon moods, or he and Sarah had finally done what the entire town expected. Like they were fooling anybody.

“You’re an asshole,” Bruce said, leaving a message. “I denounce you as my best friend.”

Bruce hung up then went to watch the rest of Oprah before going out for groceries. He was almost out of eggs. The commercial break had just ended when the phone rang, and Bruce swore soundlessly at the ceiling. Fucking Johnny Smith and his terrible timing.

“Oh, you decided you were speaking to me again?”

“Uh,” a voice that was decidedly _not_ Johnny said, “did I ever stop?”

“What? Walt?” Bruce blinked stupidly at his phone, wondering how Walt even knew his number, then quickly brought the receiver back to his ear. “I mean, hey, hi, sorry. I had just left a message with … and you know what? It doesn’t matter. What’s up, man?”

Walt cleared his throat. “I was just wondering … okay, here’s the thing: that theatre over on Cedar Street is running a John Wayne thing, and, well, I would appreciate the company.” He exhaled sharply into the receiver. “And besides, I know where Johnny is.”

Well, at least Johnny wasn’t acting psycho about Stillson again. “When does it start?”

“Seven,” Walt replied quickly.

“I can do seven.”

After a few more minutes of aimless small talk, Bruce hung up, decided Oprah wasn’t worth watching, and went to get his groceries instead. His life was weird sometimes.

~~~

After putting his groceries away, Bruce took a quick shower then dressed in a clean pair of jeans and a cream turtleneck, eyeing himself in the mirror. Something strange was happening here, something that Bruce didn’t have the balls to name, but it hadn’t killed him yet, and until it did, Bruce was going to keep strolling merrily down this bizarre path.

Bruce got to the theatre early, only to see Walt was already there, rubbing his hands together, blowing on his fingers. “You should get some gloves,” Bruce said casually.

“I had gloves,” Walt replied, puffing like a steam pipe, “but I lost them, as usual.”

“A regular thing with you?”

“Unfortunately,” Walt said, smiling, and Bruce grinned at him. Walt tucked his hands into the pockets of his coat, shivering, as he added, “I already bought the tickets, just in case.” Bruce reached for his wallet, but Walt shook his head. “No, my treat. I owe you.”

“Eh, what’s a little puke among friends? I feel closer to you already.”

“Come on,” Walt said, smiling.

There had been no need for Walt to buy the tickets, because the theatre was pretty much empty. They sat at the back, far away from the weird guy in the trench coat in the third row and even further from the teenagers tucked up against the wall, almost invisible.

Bruce got comfortable in his seat then looked over. “Hey, you all right?”

“Sure,” Walt said, the expression on his face pained, like it hurt to lie like that.

They watched the movies, a double feature with a half-hour intermission in the middle, during which Bruce decided he was hungry. He ran out, bought an Olympic-swimming-pool-sized tub of popcorn, two Diet Cokes and a box of Junior Mints, managing to get them all back to the seat without spilling. Walt took the cokes as Bruce got settled again.

It was past eleven when the last movie ended. As they walked out, not talking to each other but comfortable nonetheless, Bruce noticed with horror that it had started snowing. He dug his own gloves out of the pockets of his coat. “Want one?” Bruce asked.

“Nah, I’m good.” Walt looked around, exhaling sharply. “Well, I guess …”

“Feel like a walk? I feel like a walk,” Bruce said quickly.

Walt nodded slowly. “Yeah, sure, okay.”

It was snowing the big fluffy type of flakes that almost made Bruce forget how hellish the drive into work the next day was going to be. The roads were empty, the whole world almost quiet. Just him, and Walt, and a comfortable silence between them, so when Bruce spoke again, he did so cautiously. “I guess the inevitable happened, huh?”

“Yep.” Walt blinked a few fuzzy snowflakes off his eyelashes. “I don’t know why they thought they had to _tell_ me. I’m not actually an idiot.” Walt sighed deeply, pushing his hands deeper into his pockets. “And it’s not like I didn’t know what would happen.”

“That whole situation has sucked from the beginning,” Bruce said. “No offense.”

“None taken.” Walt frowned down at his feet. “I really did love her, you know. Even if it seems like … you know, that I’m …” Walt stopped walking. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Shit, I don’t know why I’m doing any of this.”

“Because being alone sucks,” Bruce said, “and because I’m safe.”

“You don’t feel safe,” Walt muttered, and Bruce didn’t reply, mostly because he wasn’t sure what Walt meant. And if he suspected, well, it was better he pretended he didn’t. Walt looked up. “Part of it is, I don’t like giving up, and I feel like I just stepped aside.”

Bruce smiled tightly. “I’m sure if you asked Johnny, he’d disagree.”

Walt ran his hands through his hair before shoving them back into his front pockets. “Fuck, I wish I could hate that guy. Hell, I wish I could hate _Sarah_ , but. I don’t know.” Walt shivered, shrinking into the woolly collar of his coat. “I just wish JJ wasn’t caught up in the middle. It hasn’t been a bad divorce, you know, as far as these things go.”

“JJ will be fine,” Bruce said. “He’s got a good head on his shoulders, like his dad.”

“Yeah, Johnny’s all right.”

“I wasn’t talking about Johnny,” Bruce said, grinning when Walt pushed him away into the empty street. Too bad there wasn’t enough snow for a snowball fight. “And listen, you’re allowed to be pissed about this. I’m pretty pissed, actually, that I _wasn’t_ told.”

“Be grateful. Talk about awkward. I felt like a kid getting the sex talk.”

“I never got one of those,” Bruce admitted. “Had to learn it all from a porno mag.”

“Wow, remind me not to have sex with you,” Walt said, laughing, so casual that Bruce knew Walt hadn’t even registered the words until they were long gone. The mortified look on his face confirmed that, and Bruce had to step in before Walt had a coronary.

“Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” Bruce replied, stupidly. Probably not the best thing to say, but like Walt, when he found a witty retort, he just had to run with it.

Walt raised an eyebrow, and Bruce shrugged innocently. Looking at a nearby patch of grass, he decided that maybe there was enough snow for a snowball fight after all.

~~~

He and Johnny played phone tag for a couple more days, which freed up Bruce’s leisure time considerably. Usually, his non-work hours were filled with keeping Johnny alive and sane, supporting him even when Johnny didn’t realise what Bruce was doing. Without him, Bruce didn’t exactly have a lot to do, besides eat, sleep and watch teevee.

That was where Walt came in.

After the night at the movies, it got easier just to phone Walt and see if he wasn’t busy. A lot of the times, he was, because his job required even more time than Bruce’s did, but occasionally, Bruce lucked out and Walt had nothing better to do than hang out with him.

They had more in common than Bruce would have guessed a few weeks ago. Besides westerns, Walt also loved movies where things blew up, loud and flashy, which were a favourite of Bruce’s. He also didn’t mind some of the more classic comedies. Bruce wasn’t quite as hardcore about sports as Walt was, but he liked a good hockey game with his beer, and he especially liked watching JJ’s hockey games, which Walt started inviting him to.

But most of all, Walt was proving to be one of the only other people in the world who _understood_ what it was like to live a life that revolved around Johnny Smith. They didn’t talk about it, but Bruce knew Walt got it, even if he didn’t know everything Bruce knew.

Things had finally balanced. Johnny had Sarah, and Bruce and Walt had each other, whatever that meant. Most days, Bruce didn’t think too hard about it.

~~~

Johnny finally got back to him, showing up on his doorstep holding a case of Bud Light and looking so suitably apologetic that Bruce let him in. Johnny stomped the snow off his boots then shrugged out of his heavy black coat, hanging it up.

“Sorry,” he said.

Bruce rolled his eyes. “Whatever. I know you’re an idiot. It’s not news to me.”

Johnny ambled over to the couch then sat down, combing the snow out of his hair with his fingers. “I just … I didn’t want it to happen, and then it did, and it was just so …”

“Predictable,” Bruce said dryly, and Johnny nodded. “You really don’t need to explain.”

Johnny folded his hands together, bringing them to his face and resting his chin on them. Secretly, Bruce was happy Johnny felt bad, because it had been a shitty thing to do, to ignore him like that for a _girl_ , like they were twelve. “Anything new with you?”

There were a lot of things new, but Bruce didn’t want to talk about any of them. He was kind of pissed about that, too, for reasons he couldn’t explain. “No,” Bruce said, “nothing.”

Johnny raised an eyebrow. “Riiight.”

“Hey, you’ve been replaced as my best friend. Didn’t you get my message?”  
Johnny huffed at him dismissively. “Oh, fuck off. I was busy, all right.”

“Busy _doing it_ ,” Bruce replied slyly, a big nasty smirk on his face. Johnny spared him a withering glare, but didn’t argue, which meant Bruce was right. Bruce loved being right. “Well, I’m happy for you, man. But it’s not like I didn’t know what was going on.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. You’re so smart, and I’m so dumb.”

“Sing it, sister,” Bruce said, grinning. “You hungry or something? I can make eggs to go with that beer.”

“That’s all you can make,” Johnny said.

“Shut up.”

It was lucky that Bruce had gone shopping, because otherwise, he would have been out of eggs. He had been making omelettes and egg sandwiches for Walt all week. He cooked while Johnny played around with his tivo, something that Johnny would never get a hold of. Most of the time, Bruce had to talk Johnny out of buying VHS. Dead technology meant nothing to Johnny, who firmly believed in things that started with the word ‘dead’.

When Bruce brought the plates out, Johnny was in the middle of a vision, scowling at the wall and drooling a little. Bruce kicked him in the leg. “Earth to Johnny, return home.”

Johnny shuddered then glared up at him. “Stop doing that. It’s not funny.”

“One, it’s funny for me, and two, this is my private domain, buzz off.” Bruce collapsed on the couch, fork already dug deep into his cheese omelette. He had, in his opinion, outdone himself. He hiked his heels up on the coffee table. “So what did you just see?”

“Walt’s been here,” Johnny said, chewing. “You tivo-ed something for him.”

“He doesn’t have cable,” Bruce replied. “I tivo a lot of things for him.”

“I see.”

Bruce hummed around his fork, knowing that probably wasn’t the vision at all, at least not all of it, but he and Johnny had known each other long enough and well enough that Johnny got it when Bruce didn’t want to speak about something. The Walt thing was no longer Johnny’s business. Hadn’t been, since Johnny had hoisted Walt off on Bruce.

“So what are you doing for Christmas?”

“I have a date with delicious little bird called turkey.”

“Not going home?”

Bruce shook his head. “You couldn’t pay me, man. Why?”

“You should come over to Sarah’s place. It’s going to be a rocking good time, complete with one adorable kid and a bunch of adults who have messed up each other’s lives in wild and zany ways.” Johnny kept it light, almost humourous, but it was sadly true. “You’re invited.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Walt will be there,” Johnny said.

“ _I’ll think about it_ ,” Bruce repeated, and kicked Johnny in the leg again.

~~~

“I hear you’re having Christmas dinner with us,” Walt said the next time he and Bruce met up, which was another random meeting. The Laundromat again, under similar circumstances -- this lingering insomnia was really getting old fast. “It’ll be a hoot.”

“A hoot,” Bruce said, sorting his clothes. “Please define ‘a hoot’ for me.”

“I don’t know. I’m just repeating what Sarah said after I told her I didn’t think me being there was a good idea.” Walt reached over and grabbed a sweater out of Bruce’s lights again, that same stupid red one again. “But she says I should be there, for JJ’s sake.”

“Makes sense, I guess. Personally, I think they just want us all to suffer equally.”

“Strength in numbers,” Walt muttered, going back to his own laundry pile.

Once his laundry was in the machine, Bruce lifted his butt onto a nearby washing machine and settled there as Walt pulled up a chair, leaning back, hands behind his head.

Bruce looked around. “You ever wonder how this place stays in business?”

“All the time,” Walt said, smiling. “But a guy’s gotta do his laundry sometime.”

“And what better time than two in the morning, when I have to be up at seven.”

“You don’t sleep a lot,” Walt said quietly, like there was a puzzle there, and maybe there was, but Bruce wasn't going to dwell when there was a simple solution. Why sleep, when the nightmares were just going to wake you up again? “I used to be like that, after I got back from Desert Storm.”

Bruce took a while to reply. “It’s probably something similar,” he admitted, finally.

“The war just hasn’t happened yet,” Walt said softly, and when Bruce looked up, Walt was serious and grim, the same expression Johnny wore every time he touched that fucker Stillson, the same expression Bruce saw in the mirror every time he thought of it.

And then it was gone, and Bruce knew his own face had lost its solemnity, too.

“I’m going to buy you a Christmas present,” Bruce said, changing the subject.

Walt clicked his tongue dismissively. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I’m just telling you so you get me something.” Bruce grinned at Walt fiendishly.

Amused, Walt nodded. “All right, then. Thanks for the warning.”

“You’re ever so welcome,” Bruce said, laughing.

~~~

The time leading up to Christmas was a blur. Bruce worked overtime for a bunch of people who took time off to visit family members. His free time was split between seeing Walt, who was incredible busy since apparently, the whole world went insane at Christmastime, and seeing Johnny, who had decided they were best friends again.

Bruce spent Christmas Eve by himself, drinking rye and gingers and watching _It’s A Wonderful Life_. It wasn’t depression, exactly, what he felt during times like these. Just a vague, unsettled feeling that someday, he wouldn’t have a teevee, or a job, or even a life.

He woke up to his mother calling him, which he suffered through. He loved his mama like any good boy would, but her ideas of him were as far away from reality as possible. She was in Brazil with her friend Lucy, spending her nest egg and seeing the world.

“I just worry about you, Bruce. You’re so alone out there.”

Bruce sighed. “I’m fine, Mama. I like it here. I have friends here. I’m happy here.”

“So you say,” she said, dismissing him like she always did. Mama knew best, of course. Bruce had given up fighting with her a long time ago. So he listened to her until her phone card ran out, wished her a very Merry Christmas, and gladly went back to sleep.

He woke up for real at noon, scratched all his itchy places then made himself some eggs. Eggs Benedict, because it was Christmas and he had found a recipe on the back of his last carton. When it was cooked, he turned on the teevee and settled down to watch cartoons.

Then he opened his presents: another woolly sweater from his mother, because Maine was apparently that much colder than Indiana, and DVDs from Johnny. Bruce cherished them because he knew the mental anguish they would have caused Johnny to buy.

~~~

He showed up at the Bracknell (formerly Bannerman) residence at a little after four.

“Bruce, Merry Christmas,” Sarah said, waving him into the house. She leaned up and kissed his cheek as he pushed off his shoes. She looked good, happy, and Bruce felt only a little guilty for reasons he couldn’t quite put a finger on. Maybe he was psychic, too.

Bruce took a deep sniff. “Mm, smells good. Here, I brought wine, and a present for JJ.” It was a PS2 game Johnny said JJ desperately wanted, even though he didn’t know it yet.

Sarah took both the gifts, showing him into the house. Walt and Johnny were already there, sitting on the floor with JJ, setting up a game of Clue. Johnny waved him over. “It sucks with three people, and Sarah thinks she’s too important to play with boys.” He made a face.

She laughed, washing her hands at the sink. “Sarah wishes someone else would get a girlfriend, so she’d have someone to play with who doesn’t leave the toilet seat up.”

“Better get on that JJ,” Johnny said, grinning as JJ spluttered, grossed out.

“You could have brought someone, Bruce,” Sarah said, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Uh,” Bruce said, his face feeling ridiculously hot, “that’s okay. I’m single right now.”

“Okay,” Sarah said. “Can I offer you a beer?”

Alcohol made everything better, even a game of Clue, which was awesome on its own. The only problem with playing Clue with all boys was that the last one to the table got stuck playing Miss Scarlet, but Bruce was secure enough in his manhood to handle it.

~~~

Dinner was delicious, more food than Bruce would have cooked for himself, and the fact he hadn’t cooked _anything_ for himself made it taste that much better. They drank, and laughed, and sang, and it all felt weirdly normal, if you ignored the mess of interpersonal relationships. Mostly, though, Bruce ignored Walt, because this was his ex-wife’s house.

Because that was how things had been working recently, he found Walt alone anyway, standing in the hall, staring at a picture. Bruce didn’t need to get closer to know it was a family portrait. Christmas had been much simpler last year, but slightly more insane.

“Merry Christmas,” Bruce said quietly, digging into his winter coat and retrieving Walt’s present. He held it out to him.

“You too,” Walt replied, looking over then taking the box, bringing it up to his ear and shaking it. Bruce smiled. JJ had done the exact same thing with his video game, and totally without thinking about it. Like father, like son. “Your present is over by the door.”

There was a sleek silver parcel by the door, with no tag, so Bruce picked it up and unwrapped it. It was a cookbook, and he laughed when he saw the title. “’Egg-cellent Meals: More Than One Way To Fry An Egg’. Nice. You complaining about my cooking or something?” Bruce asked, grinning over at Walt, who had just opened his own gift.

“Nope, just encouraging you to perfect your craft,” Walt replied, smiling, as he pulled on his new leather gloves. He spread his fingers admiringly. “Just what I needed. Thanks.”

“Ah, but here is where I really impress.” Bruce walked and took Walt's wrist, folding down the edge of the gloves. He had paid extra to get ‘Sheriff Walt Bannerman - return if found’ embroidered on the tag. “But if they get taken hostage, just let them go.”

Walt laughed a little. “Sure thing.”

Bruce grinned, feeling loose and pliant due to all the alcohol, and warm because Sarah kept her house heated like an oven. He felt good, better than he had in weeks. He felt great. Bruce could hear Sarah, Johnny and JJ shouting at the PS2, the adults barking out useless tips, the kid begging them both to stop talking so he could concentrate, please.

Bruce looked up suddenly, purely on a whim, and there was a sprig of plastic mistletoe hanging from the lighting fixture. And had a drunk guy ever needed more of an excuse than that? Bruce hadn’t come across any in his life, and he wasn’t about to start a trend.

Tentatively, half expecting Walt to freak out and break his arm in three places, Bruce lifted his hand and laid it gently on Walt’s neck as his thumb came to rest on Walt’s jaw. This was such a bad idea. This was going to unnecessarily complicate everything.

This was something he couldn’t stop, and hadn’t been able to since it started.

Bruce pulled Walt closer, relieved when he moved easily, mouths touching without the slightest hint of hesitation from either of them. Dry at first as Bruce gave Walt a chance to get used to the scratchiness of Bruce’s half-assed goatee and the sharp angles of Bruce’s body, so utterly unlike Sarah’s smooth curves. Then wetter as Bruce slid his tongue over Walt’s lips, Walt pushing up against him, moaning into his open mouth.

That was the hard part, Bruce thought, kissing for the first time, and now that they had gotten it over with, he could relax a little.

They both could.

~~~

“You’re welcome to stay here,” Sarah said as Bruce bundled up, studiously avoiding looking at Walt. He was drunk, which made him paranoid, and any future conversations with Sarah had to be made under the influence of sobriety. “I can make up the couch …”

“That couch is the most uncomfortable couch in the entire world,” Walt said, barely sounding drunk at all, but Bruce knew he was. His mouth, for one thing, tasted like a brewery. “Me and Bruce just live a block away from each other. One very cheap cab ride away.”

“The couch isn’t that bad.”

“Yes, it is.”

“And look,” Bruce said, cutting in before a huge fight broke out over something dumb, “the cab’s here. Merry Christmas again, Sarah.” Bruce kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks for the delicious meal. John,” he pointed at Johnny, “I will see you later.”

“What? No kiss for me?” Johnny asked.

Bruce couldn’t tell if Johnny was fucking with him or not. “Asshole,” Bruce mumbled.

He twitched all the way back to his apartment, desperately trying not to look at Walt, whose face was a blank slate, completely emotionless. Bruce took it back; the hard part wasn’t the first kiss, but everything that followed. He was no good at relationships, but Walt made him want to try. Bruce stared out of the window. This whole thing was insane.

Him and Walt, haha, right. Like that would ever happen. Maybe Bruce was in one of Johnny’s visions again. That would, bizarrely, make more sense. Except just thinking that made Bruce miserable, because he liked this. Walt. Them together, having fun.

Bruce didn’t know when or if the apocalypse was going to happen, but he was sick of living his life like it was some definite thing, like he didn’t believe in Johnny’s power. But faith was a difficult thing for Bruce. Believing in one single man was even harder.

Bruce rubbed his eyes. He shouldn’t have had so much to drink. It made him maudlin.

Walt paid the cabbie, and followed Bruce up to his apartment without saying a word. The anticipation, the expectation, was a tangible thing. Bruce hadn’t had sex in months, even before this complicated thing with Walt emerged from the wreckage of Walt’s doomed-from-the-beginning marriage and Johnny’s stupid ass visions. Hadn’t felt like it.

He sure as hell felt like it now.

Bruce had been sure Walt would need another drink, or they’d make idle chit-chat about any number of inane things, but once the door was locked, Walt curled his fingers around Bruce’s wrist. Walt pulled him into a deep kiss, then lifted his hands and framed Bruce’s face.

Bruce expected Walt to say something, because Bruce had done the impossible and found the small of amount of things Walt liked to talk about, as opposed to the huge number of things he didn’t. But Walt just looked at him with dark eyes then kissed him again.

And then the time for leisure was gone, though Bruce couldn’t tell who made the first desperate move, but suddenly, he was more than willing to pull Walt’s shirt off with his teeth. He yanked it open with more force than necessary, popping the buttons then dragging the shirt down Walt’s arms. Bruce grinned at Walt, who grinned back at him.

They stumbled into Bruce’s bedroom, Bruce trying to get out of his pants while Walt struggled with his own. Drunk as fuck, yes, but he was ready for this, no alcohol-induced impotence for him. He got undressed first, then climbed on his bed and waited for Walt.

Walt was a powerfully built man. Not a steroid-puffy tank, but pure muscle on a solid frame, sleek and powerful, the sort of sexy that drove a guy like Bruce, who knew muscles because they were his job and livelihood, wild.

Chewing on his lower lip, watching Walt push his briefs down his legs and step out of them, kicking them over to where his pants had landed, Bruce ran a hand down his belly, stopping just before his groin and his aching cock. He hadn’t even jerked off in forever.

Walt was about to change all of that.

~~~

Part of Bruce wanted to just toss Walt down to the bed and screw his brains out, but he was still a little drunk, which weighted down his limbs and made him more open to the idea of taking it slow. Bruce was the type of guy who screwed on the first date, because more often than not, there wasn’t a second, but this time was different, so Bruce would be, too.

Kneeling up, Bruce reached out for Walt, skimming his hands across Walt’s chest then jumping slightly when Walt’s hands, warm and callused, moved over his skin in return. Bruce smiled at Walt before swallowing Walt’s own crooked grin with a deep kiss, fitting their legs together, lifting up against him and really trying not to hump like a teenager.

Walt was pure muscle, and Bruce couldn’t stop touching him, his broad back, his round ass, his trim waist. Couldn’t stop his mouth from moving down Walt’s shoulder as Walt grabbed at him, kissing the side of his neck, lips sliding over the whorl of Bruce’s ear. Couldn’t stop squirming either, because Walt felt so good pressed up tight against him.

Eventually, Bruce pushed Walt back, grinning up at him as his walked his fingers teasingly down Walt’s flat belly. Lower and lower, until Walt’s cock, long and hard and ready, bumped his wrist, leaving a few sticky smears. Walt looked down at him, barely breathing, stomach sucked in tight, and Bruce licked around each ridge of sharp muscle.

“Fucking nice,” he said.

And then Bruce licked even lower, the point of his tongue mapping the length of Walt’s dick then circling the head, gathering the salt that beaded there. Walt went still, his legs stiff columns of muscle but parting easily as Bruce settled between them, sucking him in.

“Oh, fuck,” Walt said, surprised and breathless and so goddamn sexy that Bruce almost came right there against the crisp cotton sheets that covered his bed. Bruce increased the speed of his mouth, determined to make Walt come, truly needing to see that happen.

When it did, he swallowed.

Bruce leaned up to kiss Walt again, pleased when Walt went without urging. They were both slick with sweat now, Walt’s skin practically on fire, and Bruce pushed against him, craving that warmth. Dragging a hand down Walt’s back, Bruce leaned back and spread his legs, pulling Walt on top of him. He hooked one leg across the backs of Walt’s thighs.

“Like that, man,” Bruce said softly, curving his hands around Walt’s ass, urging him to move. Walt’s cock skidded wetly over his belly before settling in the bend of his hip. Walt moaned, nuzzling his cheek, and Bruce grinned happily before tugging him closer.

Walt thrust against him, clumsy at first but finding the rhythm quick enough. Bruce wanted to be fucked by Walt, but for all his lazy daydreams, he hadn’t actually prepared for the possibility that someday Walt Bannerman would find his way into Bruce’s bed.

Bruce really had to work on that faith thing. He was sadly out of practice.

~~~

Walt didn’t have a breakdown in the morning. In fact, when Bruce took a shower, Walt invited himself along, and they fucked again, for the third time, with lukewarm water beating down on them. Walt gave inexpert, sloppy blowjobs that drove Bruce completely crazy, and Bruce found he couldn’t keep his hands off Walt’s thick, heavy cock.

A match made in heaven, Bruce’s mama would have said, except Bruce was pretty sure something like this had never entered into her imagination. He hoped not, anyway. This Walt thing, or more specifically, this white guy from Maine thing, would probably give her a heart attack, though Bruce wasn’t sure which descriptor would be the final nail in the coffin.

But nothing was different after they started sleeping together. They still hung out. Bruce still cooked Walt eggs, though the variety had increased thanks to Egg-cellent Meals. Walt still showed up after a late shift, trusting that Bruce would still be awake, watching DVDs or some shitty show on USA. They even still did their laundry together.

Nothing had changed, and Walt seemed perfectly fine.

Which meant Johnny had lied to him.

“Did you actually have a vision?” Bruce asked, showing up at Johnny’s house uninvited, careful not to touch Johnny on the way in. He hadn’t brought donuts for that exact reason. “Did you really see something, or was that some sort of ruse to get Walt and I to … you know.”

Johnny frowned at him. “I _don’t_ know, actually. To get you and Walt to … what?”

“You know,” Bruce insisted. “You’re a goddamn psychic, Johnny.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, _Bruce_ ,” Johnny replied, holding up his hands in surrender, and Bruce grabbed his arm before he could think about it. Johnny’s eyes rolled back in his head and then he abruptly pulled away. “I didn’t mean seduce him!”

“I didn’t _seduce_ him,” Bruce said, stepping back, embarrassed now. He and Walt had been pretty private about their relationship up until this point, and Bruce had liked it like that. Now Johnny knew, which meant they would have to tell Sarah. “It just happened.”

Johnny gaped at him, mind obviously blown. “You and Walt.”

Bruce stamped his foot on the floor. “Fuck you. You knew what was going to happen!”

“I’m not a dating service!” Johnny shouted back at him, collapsing onto the couch and putting his head in his hands. Bruce was a little offended, in the rational part of his brain, which was rapidly shrinking, that Johnny didn’t seem happy for him. “You and _Walt_.”

“You knew I was bi,” Bruce said accusingly. “I told you that years ago.”

“I knew you fucked guys, but I didn’t know you fucked _Walt_.”

Bruce sat down beside Johnny, and sighed. “I didn’t even know I wanted to.”

Johnny looked over at him, and Bruce stared back, refusing to back down. If Johnny had just told him in the first place what the vision was, this wouldn’t have been a problem. Maybe the future had changed, but Bruce doubted it. Walt wasn’t acting any differently. He was clearly uncomfortable with public displays of affection, but Bruce didn’t like that either. Walt was just a quiet, shy guy underneath it all, and ridiculously easy-going.

“How can I tell if the future has changed?” Bruce asked.

“I still have the coffee cup,” Johnny replied, getting up and hobbling over to his liquor cabinet, where he kept booze on one side, and vision-related memorabilia on the other. He picked up the Styrofoam cup and twitched a few times. Bruce helped him sit down.

“Nothing has changed,” Johnny said quietly, perched on the edge of a recliner.

Bruce plopped down heavily on the floor at Johnny’s feet. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Wait.”

~~~

Bruce didn’t have to wait long. The next day, he picked up a voice mail from Walt, saying something had come up and he'd probably be scarce for the next few days. Two days after that, the news broke; Bruce read it on the front page of the Bangor Daily News.

Three murders in the last two months, with only three things in common: all of the victims were young, male and gay. Putting down the paper, Bruce felt sick to his stomach, selfishly fearful and violently angry at the same time. One of the victims, a law student named Trevor, was a guy that Bruce had been friendly with, had _slept_ with, more than once.

Bruce called in sick, and went to find Walt.

Armed with sandwiches and coffees, Bruce drove across town to the local sheriff’s department, and got Roscoe to let him into Walt’s office. Waiting for Walt to come back, Bruce felt weird, but he was sure this was where he was meant to be, where he had to be.

Walt showed up ten minutes later with Johnny limping closely behind, both of them wearing matching grim expressions. Johnny stopped at the edge of the office then turned around, closing the door behind him. Bruce stood up, ready to leave if Walt wanted him to, willing to go if that was what Walt needed.

Walt grabbed him by the shoulders, hauling him into a hug.

“Are you okay?” Bruce asked, whispering right into Walt’s ear.

“Been better,” Walt said gruffly, pulling back then rounding his desk and sitting down. Bruce slid a cup of coffee in his direction, followed by an egg salad sandwich. Walt nodded his thanks, without saying a word, and turned his attention to the mountain of work before him. That was, Bruce knew, his cue to leave.

“You probably have stuff to do,” Bruce said. “Maybe I’ll see you later.”

“You will,” Walt said, without looking up.

Bruce nodded then walked out of Walt’s office and out of the building. Johnny was sitting on a bench outside, staring off into space. Not a vision, just the look of a man who had seen too much. Bruce sat down next to him, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

“Hey,” Bruce said. “Sorry for doubting your visions.”

“I hate my visions,” Johnny said quietly, eyes fixed firmly ahead.

Bruce bowed his head, staring at his hands. “I know.”

Johnny nodded, then took a deep breath and let it out. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but we’ve got some leads, and I think we can catch this guy before he gets anybody else. I _hope_ we can get him,” Johnny said, correcting himself. “These guys were _kids_ , Bruce.”

“You’ll get this fucker,” Bruce assured him. “I believe that, and so does everybody else.”

Johnny sighed deeply and said, “okay,” pretty unconvincingly.

~~~

Six days later, they found another guy over in Newport, who had been out with his buddies celebrating his thirtieth birthday two days before. Bruce woke up alone, and read the paper alone, and felt very alone. He called Walt, who didn’t pick up his phone and who Bruce hadn’t seen in almost a week, then went into work just for something to do.

For the first time in the history of physical therapy, nobody injured any vital body parts, or needed a massage for their gimpy limbs, or even scheduled a session with him. Bruce checked with a few of the higher-ups to find out if there was a problem, but no, he was just lucky apparently. He took an early lunch instead, a fried egg sandwich with Canadian bacon, then spent the rest of the afternoon puking it up. Yeah, he was lucky.

Right.

But Bruce had to try, even if he had made it unnecessarily hard for himself by gaining Walt’s friendship too early. If Bruce had known, well, _he_ wasn’t the psychic, and it was too late now anyway. Walt hadn’t freaked out on him yet. Bruce had to work with that.

When he got to the sheriff’s department, there were a handful of protesters outside, marching in dizzying circles and holding signs that read things like ‘nobody cares about our sons’ and ‘equal treatment is a right for all people’. A few of the signs even batted for the other team, the ones that said ‘god hates fags’ and various other catchy slogans.

Bruce blinked at them, completely stupefied.

Inside, it was a mess of deputies trying to hold off reporters, who collectively loved the words _serial killer_ , even when attached to other words that were political shit-storms. Bruce wanted to punch all of them in the teeth. They just made everything worse.

 

Walt and Johnny were in Walt’s office, pouring over pictures of the crime scenes, criminal records pulled out of filing, and Baggies full of entirely useless evidence.

“Can I help?” Bruce asked, knocking on the door as he entered the room.

“You can make Walt get some sleep. He’s been up for days.”

“I’m fine,” Walt said tersely without looking up, but his hands were shaking as he flipped though a stack of reports, glossing over them with quick, unblinking eyes. “You’re better off staying away from here,” he added. “You don’t need to worry about me. Go home.”

“If you’ll come with me,” Bruce said, and Walt looked up at that. “You’re exhausted.”

“You’ve seen the protesters outside.”

“I’ve seen them,” Bruce agreed, Johnny sitting quietly beside him, both of them waiting for Walt’s retort, but it didn’t come. He simply looked down at the reports and went back to work, ignoring them. “Fine, but if you’re not home by ten, I’m coming to get you.”

Walt nodded his head sharply. “I’ll be there.”

“See you then,” Bruce said, and turned around and left.

~~~

Bruce baked some cookies, and watched the evening news, catching a press conference where Walt talked about the murders, and yes, they were dealing with a serial killer, and yes, they were definitely treating it as a hate crime, and _yes_ , his deputies were working just as hard as they would for anybody else, gay or straight or somewhere in between.

Bruce was dozing on the couch when Walt let himself in, clomping his boots on the floor to shake the snow off. It was a little after ten, which was close enough. Bruce hadn’t thought Walt would show at all, all things considered. That he had gave Bruce hope.

The difference, physically, was striking. Walt looked about ready to collapse, the dark circles under his eyes visible in the shitty fluorescent light, and his shoulders slumped.

“Are you hungry?”

“No,” Walt said, sounding lost and confused, and Bruce jumped up to help him.

Walt was shaking as Bruce pushed him toward the bedroom, massaging his shoulders. Walt began to wilt almost immediately, and Bruce could believe that he hadn’t slept in days, because that was the type of sheriff Walt was. Those protestors didn’t know shit.

Walt stripped down almost mechanically then fell face first into Bruce’s bed, digging his head into Bruce’s pillow. Ten seconds, and Walt was out like a light, breath even but body still tense, even in sleep. Bruce sighed then undressed and joined Walt in bed.

“I have no idea what I’m supposed to do now, man,” Bruce whispered.

Walt turned in his sleep, and tucked himself more securely against Bruce’s side, tight lines drawn around his mouth. Nightmares already, Bruce thought, hugging him close.

Bruce stared at the ceiling for a long time before finally nodding off.

~~~

Bruce woke up to the sound of shattering glass, and he jumped out of bed, disoriented and terrified, going through any number of horrific scenarios in his head. It was the serial killer. It was someone breaking into his house. It was all of his mother’s worries about Maine coming true. Bruce was, in essence, a pacifist, but he really wished had a weapon.

He had to settle for a pair of Walt’s jeans.

But it wasn’t actually any of those things. It was Walt, who had just put his hands through the mirror Bruce had hung in his hallway, bought after one of his various treks with Johnny to the local antique markets. Walt, who had put his hands through _glass_.

“What the fuck!” Bruce shouted, more relieved than angry, but that still didn’t excuse Walt. It was the goddamn teevee, and Bruce knew it. Early morning news, debating Walt’s motives, Walt’s ability to do his damn job. Those fuckers didn’t know a thing.

“Don’t touch me,” Walt said when Bruce reached for him.

“You’re bleeding all over my goddamn floor,” Bruce said, feeling eerily calm. If this wasn’t Johnny’s vision, Bruce would eat his sock, so it was Bruce’s job, Bruce’s _responsibility_ , to get Walt from point A to point B without Walt totally losing it.

Bruce stood there, watching rivers of blood twist down Walt’s fingers, dripping into lakes on his hardwood floor. Sighing, Bruce turned on his heel, and tried to walk into the kitchen, avoiding Walt when Walt grabbed for him. “Don’t fucking call _anyone_ ,” he said.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Bruce replied, more Zen than he had ever been in his life. Was this how Johnny felt, once he saw the future unfold just as he predicted it would? It was a powerful feeling, though Bruce was no less scared. Just for different reasons, he thought.

In the kitchen, he grabbed two freshly clean towels and brought them to Walt, who was staring at that damn television again.

“That report is bullshit,” Bruce said, holding out the towels and not surprised at all when Walt ignored him, eyes fixed on the screen. “This whole media circus is bullshit. Those fucking 'god hates fags' protestors are bullshit, and the other ones? There's nothing you can do to help them except continue what you've been doing, even if they think you're going too slow. You're a good cop, Walt. You'll find this guy eventually."

“But they have a point.”

“Maybe, but if there’s a problem, it’s not with you. It's with the system, and it's with that fucking murderer out there. They’re just angry and scared ...”

“And I’m gay,” Walt muttered, balling up his hands again. “I mean, I think I’m gay, or bi, or _whatever_ , but I don’t want to be, god help me, but I don't.” Walt closed his eyes then drove his fist into the remains of the mirror, sending more shards to the floor with the shriek of breaking glass.

“Okay, that’s enough!” Bruce shouted, grabbing Walt by the shoulders and hauling him away from that stupid mirror, which Bruce had never liked anyway. Frantically, he tried to remember if Walt had mirrors in his apartment besides the rusty one in the bathroom. If Johnny had made this into a self-fulfilling prophecy, Bruce was going to be pissed.

“For fuck’s sake, sit down,” Bruce said, pushing Walt onto the couch then turning off the television. He hadn’t realised how loud it had been. Between the shouting, the breaking glass and the teevee, his neighbours probably thought he was being brutally murdered.

“Shit,” Walt murmured, pushing his hair back with one bloody hand, shaking uncontrollably now, shivering in Bruce’s overly warm apartment. “Shit, shit, shit,” he said.

~~~

Bruce debated calling Johnny, figuring Johnny owed him, but he didn’t.

Bruce sat down in front of Walt and took one of Walt’s hands in his, then gently began to pick the slivers of glass out of his skin. Bruce wasn’t a doctor, but he had worked in hospitals for over a decade. There was a lot of blood, but the cuts were shallow, and in Bruce’s estimation, Walt hadn’t managed to hit any veins. But even if Bruce pressed the matter, he doubted Walt would be willing to get checked out. Walt was too stubborn.

“I’ll buy you a new mirror,” Walt said quietly, and Bruce looked up at him. How anybody, even a man as stoic as Walt, could cry so soundlessly, Bruce didn’t know. He watched the tears drip off Walt’s eyelashes as Walt slowly came undone in front of him.

“You need to talk to someone,” Bruce said. “Someone who isn’t me, a professional.”

Walt shook his head, slightly at first, and then more vehement. “I’ll lose my job.”

Bruce felt the first flicker of irritation. “Walt, they can’t fire you,” he said, pointing out the obvious. Walt knew the books forward and backward, which was why he bent the rules so often for Johnny and his visions. You had to know the rules to break them.

“They can make sure I never get elected again, and I can’t be a gay cop.”

“There are plenty of gay cops,” Bruce replied, wrapping one of the towels securely around Walt’s right hand then moving onto the left one, which looked even worse.

Eyes dry and focussed again, Walt watched grimly as Bruce cleaned his palm. “Maybe city cops, but I can’t move that far away from JJ, and I don’t want him growing up anywhere other than Cleaves Mills. It’s important to Sarah, and it’s important to me.”

“And it’s important to me that you take care of yourself, physically _and_ mentally. I know we rushed into this, which was a mistake,” Bruce admitted, voicing all of the fears he had tried so hard to ignore. “And then your work situation, well, that was just bad timing.”

Walt’s eyes dropped. “And what if I really am doing what they say I’m doing?”

“Then they don’t fucking know you at all,” Bruce snapped, his anger finally bubbling to the surface. Fucking Walt and his internalised issues. “You think anyone who’s ever dealt with you is going to believe that you would let some asshole _kill_ innocent people, even subconsciously? Jesus, Walt, give yourself a little more credit than that.”

Walt thinned his lips, breathing harshly through his nose. When he finally spoke, his words were soft, choked out like it hurt to say them, and Bruce understood why it would. “It makes me so goddamn angry, Bruce, that these guys are being killed for being _brave_ , and that I can't do damned thing to help them.”

Bruce smiled sadly. “I think you just proved my point.”

Walt bowed his head and took a deep breath.

Bruce finished patching Walt up in silence.

~~~

Walt had to go to work, so Bruce made him a big breakfast then wrapped his hands with gauze after he got out of the shower. Bruce watched as Walt ate stiffly, taking little bites, gingerly scooping them into his mouth with a hand that could barely hold onto a spoon.

Bruce realised, quite suddenly, how tired he was. It figured that Walt would pick to have a breakdown at the ass-crack of dawn. Walt Bannerman, the king of bad timing. Bruce sighed, leaning against the wall as Walt struggled to pull on his coat, not asking for help.

“What you said, about this being a mistake,” Walt said, finally getting the coat over his shoulders then trying to zip it closed “Is that your polite way of calling this thing off?”

“No,” Bruce said.

“Okay.” Walt finally got the zipper together then dragged the zip up to his neck, visibly wincing. He fished his leather gloves, the same pair Bruce had given him for Christmas, out of his pocket and pulled them on using his teeth. “Even if I’m all fucked up?”

“Even then,” Bruce replied. “Though I do think you should talk to someone.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Bruce nodded, weirdly calm again, centred in a way he hadn’t felt in a very long time. He didn’t feel like running away, leaving Walt behind because he was too much trouble. Bruce knew it had been too easy up until this point, but finding that the tide had turned, he still wanted to stick it out, even if Walt was all fucked up. That was saying something.

“I guess I’ll see you later,” Walt said, wincing again as he picked up his keys.

“Good luck,” Bruce said, standing up straight and walking over to Walt, who leaned in to kiss him. Bruce pressed his mouth against Walt’s, lips parted slightly, tongue ghost over Walt’s. “And no more putting your hands through anything sharp and pointy, okay?”

“All fucked up,” Walt repeated, and Bruce nodded. “You’re a good guy, you know that?”

Bruce nodded again. “Yep.”

Walt smiled crookedly. “All right. Have a good day. Be careful.”

“Always am,” Bruce replied, waving goodbye as Walt headed toward the elevator.

Once the door was closed, Bruce slumped against the wall, sliding down and landing hard on the floor. It had been a hell of a day already. Hopefully, it would only improve.

~~~

Bruce called in sick again, then left a message for Johnny on his cell phone. Part of him wanted to chew Johnny out for putting him on this road, but most of him was just worried because if Walt was a mess, Johnny was, too, though for completely different reasons.

Bruce got into his car and drove by the sheriff’s office, glad that the number of protestors had dwindled significantly. He understood why people were angry, and understood even more why they were scared, but in this instance, it was all very misdirected. Bruce had lived in half a dozen places in his life; Cleaves Mills remained the place he felt safest.

Bruce felt like a beer, so he drove into Bangor to hit that pub he’d been to with Walt. He refused to live his life in fear, and was pleased to see people milling about on the street when he pulled up, walking with dogs, steaming cups of Starbucks coffee, each other.

There was a new bartender at the taps, a handsome guy with a beard and wire-rimmed glasses. Bruce smiled at him then ordered a pint of Heineken, settling at the counter. “Can I also get an order of fries?” Bruce asked, smiling again when the bartender nodded.

Bruce looked around, memorising the face of the other five people at the tables, two couples and one guy acting as a third wheel. Poor guy, Bruce thought, sipping his beer.

The bartender came back with his fries. “There you go,” he said.

“Hey, thanks.” Bruce tested one, hissing when it burnt his tongue. “Pretty busy for this time of day.”

“Been like that for a few days,” the bartender replied. “Want to show they’re not afraid.”

“Good,” Bruce said, frowning into his plate. “We shouldn’t have to be afraid.”

“Little fear never killed anyone,” the bartender replied, wiping down the counter.

“Except this time.”

The bartender smiled slightly. “Yup.”

Bruce went back to his beer, pulling out his cell phone and texting a message to Johnny, asking him if he felt like having dinner later. Bruce wanted to make sure Johnny was okay, but he also wanted to kick his ass. How could Johnny predict Walt’s breakdown, but completely miss the fact there was serial killer on the loose? Fucking visions, man.

Midway through his pint, Bruce sat back and stared at it. He was already feeling a little drunk, which was ridiculous. He lifted his hand, staring at his fingers, counting six. Oh Jesus, Bruce thought, and got up, heading to the bathroom to splash some water on his face. It was like he was sixteen again, sneaking careful sips of his father’s hidden scotch.

By the time, he got to the bathroom, he felt like he was about to pass out. He grabbed the sink for support then grappled for his cell phone, grateful he had Walt’s phone on speed dial. As it rang, he stumbled over to one of the stalls and plopped down on the toilet.

“Bannerman,” Walt said.

Bruce opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He could hear Johnny in the background, asking who it was, and Walt replying with a terse, “it’s Bruce’s cell phone.” Bruce thanked god for caller display, even though it wasn’t really helping him.

The door to the bathroom swung open, and Bruce nearly lost it, or as much as he could, feeling like this. He’d been drugged, obviously. He understood that now, even if he couldn’t tell anybody. In his ears, Johnny was demanding that Walt hand over the phone.

“John!” Walt shouted, loud enough to shock Bruce fully awake again. Which was a good thing, because someone was approaching the door to the stall. Bruce lifted his legs, bracing them against the door, amazed at how utterly stupid he had been. He had walked right into it, without even thinking. Cocky, like it would never happen to him.

“Bruce,” Walt said, “John says to lock the stall door right now.”

Bruce lurched to his feet, and locked it with numb, useless fingers. He wanted to laugh, because the world was obviously out to get him, determined to make him into the luckiest, and as a result the unluckiest, man in the entire universe. He was sick of destiny.

Bruce looked up to see a familiar face over the top of the stall. The fucking bartender. Bruce slumped against the side of the stall, the phone falling out of his hand, Walt’s voice clear as he shouted at Johnny, at his deputies, at someone to get out of his goddamn way.

The last thing Bruce remembered was the screech of the bartender as someone burst into the bathroom with a deafening, “freeze!”

~~~

Bruce woke up in the hospital, Johnny and Walt standing at the foot of his bed, Sarah sitting with JJ in the chair beside her, slumped over and sleeping soundly. Though his limbs still felt like someone had poured concrete into them, Bruce tried to sit up.

“Fuck,” Walt breathed, abandoning his argument with Johnny. “Hey, easy there.”

“Please tell me that guy was trying to serial kill me,” Bruce said lightly, letting Walt fuss over him. Walt lifted him up then fluffed the pillows behind his back, and Bruce studiously tried to ignore Sarah’s curious look. “Because if there’s some other psycho running around …”

“It was him,” Johnny said grimly. “I touched him, and all the evidence lined up.”

“Never trust a man with a moustache,” Bruce muttered, sinking into the pillows.

“I told you to be careful,” Walt said. “Didn’t you read the newspapers?”

“I tried not to,” Bruce admitted, starting a little when Walt took his hand and squeezed it, kneeling at the side of his bed. He looked over at Sarah, who had started smiling a bit. And then a thought occurred to Bruce. “I bet I’m all over the newspapers now, aren’t I?”

Johnny crossed his arms, resting his butt on the windowsill. “You always wanted to be famous.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Don’t argue with the psychic, Lewis. I know all,” Johnny said ominously, grinning, and Bruce laughed a little, even though it kind of made his body hurt all over.

“We’re just glad you’re all right,” Sarah said, stroking her fingers through JJ’s hair as he continued to sleep, head pillowed by Sarah’s coat. “And I’m glad you and Walt are together, even if I’m a little surprised. I _really_ didn’t see it coming,” Sarah admitted.

Bruce smirked. “Don’t worry. Neither did the psychic.”

Johnny sighed.

“Anyway, I should get this guy home to bed. He was very worried about you, Bruce,” Sarah said, shaking JJ gently awake, who mumbled unhappily and barely opened his eyes as Sarah helped him with his jacket. “You take care okay, Bruce? No more scaring us.”

“Thanks,” Bruce said. “And please take Johnny with you. The man’s exhausted.”

“Will do,” Sarah promised. “I’ll be in the hall with JJ.”

Johnny walked up to the bed, favouring his right leg, and put his hand on Bruce’s cheek. Bruce waited, but there was no vision, thank god. Johnny stepped back, and looked over at Walt. “Take care of this idiot, will you? He never looks flattering in my visions.”

“If you would stop having visions of my death,” Bruce replied.

Johnny rolled his eyes then left, shutting the door securely behind him. Bruce looked over at the chair JJ had abandoned, and Walt sat down in it, dragging it closer to the bed.

“We’re going to need a statement,” he said quietly, putting a hand on Bruce’s forearm. The bandages were itchy against Bruce’s skin, and Bruce had some suspicion that Johnny had pulled the vision from the gauze, when he and Walt were fighting for Walt’s phone.

It was amazing how easily the future came together, piece by piece, like a puzzle. It really scared the shit out of Bruce sometimes.

“No problem,” Bruce said. “I don’t mind being out. It’s you I worry about.”

“Don’t worry about me. Whatever happens, I’ll deal with it. I haven’t been dealing with it for too long, and I’m sick of that,” Walt confessed, the weight gone slightly from his shoulders. “I mean, I’m not comfortable with everybody knowing, and I know people will talk, but let them. They’ve been talking about me behind my back for a long time.”

“That was a little different,” Bruce said gently, smiling, “but thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Walt said, and squeezed his arm with a hopeful smile.


End file.
